An untruth! He had not had his tea anywhere. But he had dined richly at the new Hôtel Métropole, Hanbridge.
"What have ye got there?" asked his mother.
"A present for you," said Denry. "It's your birthday to-morrow."
"I don't know as I want reminding of that," murmured Mrs. Machin.
But when he had undone the parcel and held up the contents before her she exclaimed:
"Bless us!"
The staggered tone was an admission that for once in a way he had impressed her.
It was a magnificent sealskin mantle, longer than sealskin mantles usually are. It was one of those articles the owner of which can say: "Nobody can have a better than this—I don't care who she is." It was worth in monetary value all the plain shabby clothes on Mrs. Machin's back, and all her very ordinary best clothes upstairs, and all the furniture in the entire house, and perhaps all Denry's dandiacal wardrobe too, except his fur coat. If the entire contents of the cottage, with the aforesaid exception, had been put up to auction, they would not have realised enough to pay for that sealskin mantle.
Had it been anything but a sealskin mantle, and equally costly, Mrs. Machin would have upbraided. But a sealskin mantle is not "showy." It "goes with" any and every dress and bonnet. And the most respectable, the most conservative, the most austere woman may find legitimate pleasure in wearing it. A sealskin mantle is the sole luxurious ostentation that a woman of Mrs. Machin's temperament—and there are many such in the Five Towns and elsewhere—will conscientiously permit herself.
"Try it on," said Denry.